


A Lack of Moral Clarity

by lapsi



Category: The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blackmail, Boss/Employee Relationship, Cary Agos is even more victimised than usual, Drug Abuse, Gaslighting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Off-screen Relationship(s), Peter Florrick is even more of a bastard than usual, Season/Series 03, Threesome - F/F/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2018-09-25 17:30:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9834608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsi/pseuds/lapsi
Summary: An AU look at how Cary fell into the position of Deputy State's Attorney, and the things his boss does to make him keep it.Not canon compliant past early season three.If you are a fan of Peter Florrick, do not read this work.Major trigger warnings for drug abuse, non-consensual sexual acts, physical abuse.





	1. Chapter 1

It started with just a clap on the shoulder. Cary's eyes rise to Peter's, but Peter isn't looking, he's already taking the file and walking back to his desk.  
"Come see me if she-- if they don't take the plea."  
Cary smiles, in his standard, evasive way. He rolls his shoulder as he sits down at his desk, and examines the awkward mugshot of the Taiwanese kid. Man, he reminds himself. Can't slip up in negotiation. Kid sounds very sympathetic. And he's sure this is their guy. Murderer, or at the very least accomplice. Cary can feel it. The itching persistence of guilt. It means he knows he's missed a crucial detail. He flips through his notes, and then carefully clears his desk, stacking away last week's legal pad. That was his last case against Lockhart Gardner. 'before she objects she smiles like a smug bit'. Not very eloquent, but he can remember where he was going with that. He grinds his teeth, only looking up when he hears heels near to his open office door.  
"Go to sleep, Cary. Not competing for billable hours here."   
"Work ethic," he replies dryly. "Might wanna look that up before you go corporate." He doesn't look up. Dana's flirting confuses him. International diplomacy is plenty confusing on its own, without any idle thoughts playing around in the back of his head. Still, the loneliness wins out in the end. His eyes flick up, but her back is turned. Coat. She's heading out. He opens another document on a Taiwanese diplomat arrested for a DUI and reads in terse silence, yawning too many times. Nothing useful in the dense legal documentation. He's opening yet another one when his phone buzzes. He looks over curiously and then answers with urgency.  
"Mr. Florrick--"  
"Peter, please. Sorry to do this, Cary, but are you still at the office?"  
  
  
"Yes," Cary pauses only to check the time on his laptop. Nearly one. He wonders if Peter will be impressed, or concerned. "Finishing up now, though."  
"I had a feeling you might be. I'm in a budget meeting first thing, downtown, and I left my damn laptop in a case by my desk. If you can drop it to me on the way--"  
"No problem, si--Peter."  
"Good man."  
Cary wonders if he detected the slightest slur. Makes sense. Peter wouldn't want to drive back in. He thinks about the DUI case again as he flicks the lights off, wandering through the empty corridors and swiping into Peter's room. His phone buzzes, and he checks the address. Not far out of the way. Maybe Peter knows where he lives. He stands there in the darkness for a little too long before he realises he's not doing anything criminal. He doesn't have to worry about being seen. The lights in here come on instantly, no eerie flickering. He only gets fluorescence in his supply closet of an office. Wow, bitchy even in his own head. He runs a hand down his face as he picks up the laptop. Eight hours sleep. That's all he needs. Like he's going to get close to that. Five, if he skips the run tomorrow. He scowls at his reflection for just one second in his car door.   
  
  
Peter's apartment isn't in the nicer area that Cary was expecting. Not where he thought Alicia would live. Perhaps she doesn't. He didn't see her car, not that it necessarily means it wasn't there. He should stop thinking about Alicia so much. Especially around her husband. The door swings in, and Peter is there towering over him, smelling just faintly of whiskey.   
"Good man," Peter says, and Cary decides Peter is indisputably drunk. Repetition of simple phrases. A great indicator of intoxication. He has that momentary stab of concern, that someone as calculated as Peter Florrick is getting drunk on a Wednesday night. He's just standing in silence though, so he better say something non-judgemental.  
"It was on my way." Cary thanks whatever subconscious part of his brain organises small talk. He couldn't have figured that out manually.  
"I should get you a beer."  
He almost says that he doesn't drink on weeknights, but that would be inflammatory, to say the least. "Some other time when I won't fall asleep on your couch."  
"Of course. I've been riding you hard. Only because I know you react well to it."  
Cary gives his familiarly blank smile. "Don't say that. The other ASA's will be getting jealou--" He never can finish the bashful murmur, because Peter abruptly takes hold the arm extended with the laptop. Cary feels unforgiving fingers curl around the crook of his elbow, and doesn't think to resist the tug closer.  
"They should be jealous. You're the best of them. You know it, I know it. Everyone's in on it."  
"I--" Cary swallows hard. He can smell garlic as well as alcohol. Pizza and whiskey. Is this his future? He can't look into Peter's dark, slightly bloodshot eyes. "Alicia doesn't live here, does she?" he blurts. The hand on him releases, but it's a small relief. Idiot, he curses himself. Where did that come from? But then Peter just laughs, cold and amused.   
  
  
"Alicia has her own visitors. I don't think she needs any calls from you. You two aren't exactly best of friends, right?"  
Cary flushes. At least the weird tension seems to have abated. He steps back, then to the side to make sure it doesn't seem so much like a retreat. "I'm sorry to... that was a presumption. A rude one."  
"You didn't mean anything. You come by, on Friday. I'll get you that beer."  
"Thank you, Mr... Peter."  
"Mr. Peter," he says, laughing again, without much humour. He seems much more sober now. "Wait there." The door shuts in his face.  
Cary frowns at the closed door and checks his watch. Four and half hours, if he skips his run. And he never skips his run. He has a case to win. He's about to call out when the door reopens.  
"You do a lot of late nights, and I... I know from experience how tempting some very damaging pick-me-ups might start looking."  
Cary opens his mouth to deny that he's not getting enough sleep, when he spots the pills. Hasn't seen those since Harvard, not that he ever took them.  
"They're prescription. You need to stay at your best."  
Then the door closes just as suddenly. Cary reads the bottle in terse silence, but then pockets them. Can't be much worse than the amount of caffeine he ingests at the moment. He should go get his four hours' sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

"Good work. Okay, one last thing: You never took me up on that beer."  
Cary stares blankly for a few seconds before he just chuckles. "Beer. Right. Sorry, I was so burned out on that murder--"  
"And then you got your promotion. I guess that's better than a beer."  
"You can get promotions by delivering files? I think there's a couple of receptionists who'll want a word with you," Cary mutters, still smiling.  
"You can't get any promotions. You're deputy. If you wanna run against me next time..."  
Cary does laugh, and Peter trails off, smiling a little. Cary opens his mouth with a scathing comment, then closes it. Leave it. You always want to have the last word, but that's not how it works with your boss. He smoothes his tie, and stands to leave.    
"How's Dana doing?" Peter throws in off-handedly, not glancing up.  
"ASA Lodge? Good. She had that crystal meth thing. Seems to be panning out."  
"'Crystal meth thing'? Oh, the Wittner case. I thought that was 'GHB'."  
Cary nods, feeling only a modicum of discomfort, wondering what rumors might be going around about the two of them. "Uh, both. Whatever we can get him on."  
"Okay. Go get ready for court, but you should come back here later. Seven?"  
"Is this about ASA Lodge's case?" Cary fishes, trying to sound absentminded about it.  
"...put it out of your mind. Think of it like a pow wow, okay? Now go into court with that unfettered focus, and get a win."  
"I always win," Cary claims bold-facedly, grinning at the scoffing sound behind him. He glances in Dana's direction as he passes her on the phone, but otherwise, almost forgets to worry. He takes a couple of pills in a bathroom cubicle during a break, and checks to make sure his pupils don't look too dilated.  
  
  
Peter leaves one message pushing their impromptu meeting back to eight. Cary isn't surprised by that, but he is by the beer opened on the desk when he walks in. Eight isn't particularly late, but it's a Friday, and there seemed to be more empty desks than usual. Peter smiles at the raised eyebrow. The office is illuminated by the lamps only. Cary once again has to remind himself that he's supposed to be in here.  
"I'll take the bottles home and throw them away, don't worry. Our little secret. Anyway, I'm officially done for the night," Peter says magnanimously.  
Cary laughs a little as he sits down. Peter is nursing a beer, so it's not some kind of trap. Not that Peter seems the type to lay obvious traps like that. "Everyone was always drinking at Lockhart Gardner," he says, and regrets it at once. Peter making him nervous. He talks too much when he's nervous. No, scratch that. He talks too much in general. That's why Kalinda likes his company so much.  
"That doesn't surprise me. Gotta soothe their consciences one way or another."  
Cary drinks, feeling a steady breath of relief. He's sure he can't feel the effects of alcohol this quickly, but even the taste comforts him.  
  
  
"What did you want to talk--" he begins, once more cut off.  
"I like you Cary. And, more importantly, I trust you. ...I think there's a leak, somewhere. Specifically helping Lockhart Gardner. I need your help finding it."  
Cary feels goosebumps on the back of his neck at the way Peter's eyes bore into him. He drinks more deeply. "This is you being done for the night?"  
"I can't officially be going on witch hunts for moles. Mixing metaphors, huh?...Cary, this is about to become very important."  
Cary has no doubt what that innuendo is to. He drinks another mouthful, dismayed to find he's already finished half a beer. As if reading his mind, Peter lifts the remaining four of a six-pack, and places them on the desk with a glassy jingle. Cary glances over his shoulder self-consciously, but Peter just laughs.  
"Just you and me. We can talk."  
Well, that's ominous. Cary manages to smile. "And my idle speculation isn't going to get anyone fired?"  
"If it's just speculation? No."  
Cary's eyes flicker up again. Peter's face are very dark, and very severe.  It makes him nervous. And when he gets nervous, he talks.  
  
  
Cary only realizes that they've finished all of the beers when Peter begins placing the empty bottles back in the cardboard. He's not drunk, of course. Three beers, or was it four? Well, either way, it's been a couple of hours, and he's sure he'll be fine to drive. He's relaxed though, and he can probably thank the beer for that. Florrick makes a joke about the Chicago Bulls and Cary gives a much more genuine laugh.  He's standing to leave when he sees Peter stand, and catches a glimpse of his face. There's no smile there. Cary sinks further into his chair, mind racing.  
"Cary, I can tell when someone's holding out on me. I need you to talk to me if you suspect something. This isn't some kind of secret police, gestapo thing. You're not betraying coworkers. You're management."  
Cary just nods, longing to fiddle with his now unfastened button. But toying with your clothing is a sign of deception. At least, it always looks that way to a jury.  
"If... anyone, Kalinda, Will, Diane, if they approach you regarding even the most trivial of information, I want to hear it. Whatever they know, we cross-reference and see if they should know it."  
"Yessir."  
"Alicia, too," Peter says, after a lengthy consideration. He walks around the desk, standing perhaps a little too close. Cary has to crane his neck just to keep that essential eye contact. "You're a good kid, but people will take advantage of you. Ethics are exploitable."  
"I would never--"  
"Feelings are exploitable too."  
"Sir, I--"  
"Anger's a feeling, Mr. Agos."  
Cary runs his tongue across his gums, nodding. He breaks eye contact, and then Peter's fingers are in that same hard grip under his chin.  
  
  
Cary startles away from the contact, but Peter's hand follows, gripping harsher.  
"I know they hurt you, Cary."  
You're hurting me. He can't say that, though. He tries to nod.  
"Me too. Alicia especially, but I--" and then Cary pays no more attention, because he notices Peter zipping down his fly. It's dark in here, but that action is unmistakeable. His heart races immediately, but it's a bizarre, removed sort of panic. He watches everything happen with a hysterical self-doubt. It's a prank. It must be. Then he feels Peter's hand steering him again. He tries to push through the blind anxiety and will himself to respond. Resist. You're not gay. This is some kind of fucked up misinterpretation of friendliness and respect.  
"I think you know what to do," Peter says softly.  
_No, I don't!_ He still doesn't manage to say that out loud. His heart is pounding in his ears, and he strangely thinks of his frustration with a client who made no attempt of fighting her rapist off. Is it rape if they don't even realise you're saying no? Peter's thumb rises, pressing between his lips, and he begs himself to bite down. It's his boss, though. And this is all just an elaborate joke. Of some kind. For some purpose. His hysteria returns as Peter steers him down, and Cary remains borderline non-responsive until his lips touch skin. Warm skin. He screws his eyes shut tighter, seemingly the only thing he can do, and tries not to cry. Say anything. Do anything. It parts his dry lips, and he tastes salt, and something wet. Almost like blood.  
"Less teeth."  
He finds himself obeying, now as much uncomfortable fear as anything else. His eyes stay tightly shut, and he feels his throat contract with disgust. He hopes he throws up, but nothing happens. Peter grips the back of his head, fingers curling ineffectually into the short hair. He chokes just a little as he feels Peter thrust between his lips.  
  
  
"Relax, Cary," Peter says, still sounding as dark and inscrutable as ever.  
Cary feels tears welling up, and his eyes half open to try and clear them. He doesn't think Peter is even looking at him. One hand is tight on the arm of the chair he's pressed back into, but the other comes up to rest against Peter's hip. Push. Push him away. His fingers scrabble lightly at the material as Peter's hips press forward again, but his muscles do nothing. He's been in fights before, with friends, never seriously. He's never frozen up with panic. He doesn't panic. He keeps his wits about him. But now, it's as if everything is happening through an impenetrable window. He just feels it and hears it. Peter tugs at his hair and his mouth opens wider in a muffled wheeze of shock and pain. His fingers screw up on the hem of the State Attorney's suit jacket, and an empty acceptance grows within him. Peter thrusts a few more times, and each time Cary feels a little closer to vomiting. He gags once, feeling his mouth fill with thick saliva, and Peter's other hand goes under his jaw, to angle his chin up. Cary gags again, and then there's that foul taste. Cary does think he's going to throw up now, and somehow instinct kicks in, and the chair almost falls as fast as Cary pushes back into it. Peter abruptly lets go, and Cary sees his eyes glint in the darkness above. He stumbles to a wastepaper basket, legs asleep after sitting so long, and dry retches over the bin. Saliva drips out, and whatever else. Cary keeps his eyes screwed shut, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, shaking. His eyes open as he hears Peter's movement, feeling cornered again. But Peter's back is to him, already in the doorway leaving.  
"Let yourself out," Peter's voice comes, blankly.  
Cary waits another minute before he crumples down to the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

Cary hisses between his teeth when he comes back from court to find his office occupied. It's been weeks since he's seen her. He should be happy, but he doesn't want Kalinda fixing him with that dark, discerning stare. She always sees too much. "Kalinda, you can't be here," he says, not really looking up.  
"You're not answering your calls."  
"Huh, really? I wonder if that could mean something about whether I want to speak to you," Cary says coldly,  
Kalinda raises an eyebrow, unfolding her legs elegantly as she stands. "I have information on your current case. If you don't want it..."  
"Wait," Cary says, glancing back into the hallway. Dana probably saw her come in. Not that it matters. He hasn't had the urge to flirt in quite awhile now.  
Kalinda sits down with a soft sigh, examining the print outs from the police report on his desk. "So you want to hear it?"  
Cary rubs his eyes. He didn't really sleep last night. Bad dreams. Even the pills are barely keeping him functional. Hopefully Kalinda doesn't have an encyclopedic knowledge of side effects. "Yes, I want to hear it. Guess it helps a client of yours? I know I'm not up against Lockhart Gardner on this one."  
"Mutually beneficial," she says lowly, still reading the report.  
  
  
Cary feels a stir of desire as she tucks that dark hair behind her ear. He's relieved he still can. No, he shouldn't be thinking that at all. He's not suddenly gay. Or broken. Still just as fascinated by Kalinda as ever. Then a less pleasant thought crosses his mind. "Bishop."  
"What about Bishop?"  
"He's the ...mutual benefactor."  
Kalinda doesn't say anything, and Cary sighs with frustration and settles back into the chair. He chews at the inside of his cheek, a bad habit he's formed only very lately.  
"How long since I've seen you, and you come to me on behalf of the guy we're trying to nail," Cary mutters.  
"It's still mutually beneficial," she says, reaching into her bra and removing a thumb drive. "Do you want it, or not?"  
Cary feels another wave of desire. That would make him feel normal again, just being with a woman. "Yeah, I--" he starts to say softly, and then jumps when his phone fuzzes. Too much tension between them. Maybe it's all one way. He reads the caller ID with a feeling of uncomfortable surprise, and answers.  
"Peter?"  
Kalinda's eyes harden almost imperceptibly. She places the thumbdrive down and stands to leave. Cary's face falls.  
"Cary, come by tonight," Peter says levelly.  
All at once, Cary's back is a rigid line of muscle. "Excuse me?"  
"Come by my apartment. I'll be home at ten."  
Cary stares blankly at the opposite wall, trying to think of an excuse. "I..." he jumps again, when he feels Kalinda's hand on his shoulder. The line goes dead. Peter doesn't want to hear excuses, obviously.  
"Are you okay?" she murmurs. She almost sounds like she genuinely cares. "...Cary? Did you just get fired?"  
"What?" he asks hollowly, mind racing. Fired. Yeah, Peter could find some excuse to fire him. His connection to Lockhart Gardner's investigator could do it singlehandedly. He looks up unhappily, and Kalinda tilts her head slightly. He's pretty sure she's inspecting his pupils.  
"Cary, are you--" she starts to ask, but she hears someone coming, and changes tack abruptly. "Meet me tonight, after work."  
It's an invitation he's wanted for a long time, but he finds himself shaking his head. "I've got plans."  
Her mouth hardens into a dark line of doubt. "Congrats on making deputy," she says over her shoulder as she walks away. Cary stares after her, and forlornly wanders around to sit behind his desk. His office doesn't seem spacious any more, it seems isolating.  
  
  
He gets there half an hour early, sitting in the parking garage, fidgeting nervously and fighting sleep. He takes another pill, too exhausted and miserable to be self-regulating, washes it down with a sip of the now cold black coffee from the cup holder. It comforts him in some small way. He's prepared to work now. Read documents late into the night with his boss. That's why he's here. He flips down the sun visor, examining his pallid features critically, and forces himself out of the safety of the car. He takes his time knocking on the apartment door. He has no idea why he's here, other than the fact that he didn't know how to say no. It's a misguided sense of duty, or perhaps the fact that he still wants to impress his boss. Peter answers quickly, still wearing his suit, and Cary is relieved that he doesn't catch even a whiff of alcohol.  
"Come in," Peter says seriously, stepping away back towards what must be the dining room.  
Cary glances back around the hallway, chewing the inside of his cheek, and then follows into the dim light of the apartment.  
  
  
Peter is sitting at a small dining room table, with a spread of photographs and police reports. He motions for Cary to sit beside him, and then slides over a file of police documents, and then a lab report. Cary's relief is short lived, as he notices Peter's grave expression.  
"See anything missing?"  
Cary narrows his eyes and tries to focus. He recognizes the address. He frowns a little bit more and brushes his finger over his name. "The coke you wanted me to run. You said you needed Bishop's--"  
Peter cuts him off. "Now do you see anything missing from the lab report?" Peter says in a gravelly tone.  
Cary looks over, lips tugging down. "I handed it in early. You asked me to expedite it. It's probably on a different--"  
"No. I checked. No record of the lab ever receiving it."  
"Then they made a mistake," Cary says, trying not to let his temper rise.  
Peter just stares at him. Almost as good a poker face as Alicia. Cary's skin crawls. Peter breaks eye contact and slides another file over. "This just crossed my desk yesterday."  
Cary frowns at it. The failed pharmacy robbery. Hadn't even been gang connected. Too haphazard for that. "Yeah, you're supposed to ignore it. It's the sort of case you didn't want us pursuing," he returns, more petulantly than he intends. He gets crabby when he hasn't had enough sleep.  
"I'm not looking at the case. I'm looking at the 152 Adderall thirty milligram tablets that went missing from the scene. Including a filled prescription waiting to be picked up."  
  
  
Cary can't hide the betrayed look on his face. His chair scrapes back as he stands. He thinks of the little orange bottle and the torn label with a new cynicism and suspicion. "I didn't take it."  
"Sit down, Cary."  
"You bastard, you're trying to railroad me for--"  
"I think you'll be relieved to know that an Officer Morato on the scene was previously suspected of theft of cash from a crime scene. He's been let go. That's as far as it will go." Peter pauses, sighing heavily. "...the filled prescription wasn't really missing. I still had my suspicions, and I wanted to see if you'd take the offered pills."  
"I'd never done any--" Cary starts to claim, then wonders if Alicia had told her husband about him coming to work tripping on mushrooms. He swallows hard, and sits down. "Peter, I swear, I didn't take those pills. I was there for five minutes."  
"I want to believe you," Peter says, frowning like a scolding parent. "...did you call me a 'bastard', Mr. Agos?"  
"I'm sorry," Cary says quieter, mouth dry. He sits in silence, horror rising up in his stomach. He needs this job. This is more than just one job, though. This is disbarrable. His breath seems to come up short, until Peter reaches out, squeezes his shoulder. He doesn't look so angry any more. Cary almost falls from his chair, to kneel penitent in front of the State's Attorney.


	4. Chapter 4

Cary goes to the apartment four more times, each at the request (or is it order?) of Peter Florrick. He doesn't think about those visits, or the hanging trepidation of another invitation. He focuses more on cases, self-medicating through the onset of insomnia and paranoia. He's doing great, legally. Case after case stacked into a pile of victories. It's facing off across from Alicia on Will's grand jury that does it. Her imperious stare and her radiant anger. It makes him sure, that whatever her motivation, she'd stop what's happening to him. He drinks from a bottle of bourbon and swallows one of his remaining few pills in his parked car before he strides on up to Peter's apartment, mentally preparing himself. Just like opening arguments. He knocks very hard on the door, heart already racing. Peter's stare is all the question necessary. _Why the fuck are you here?_ Cary draws a deep breath, trying to meet the annoyed gaze.  
"Get rid of those records, or I'll tell your wife."  
Peter's lip curls. "About us? You think Alicia's going to believe a word from you?"  
"Why the fuck would I lie about this? You get rid of them or the first person I call when I leave is St. Alicia, and she can make her own judgements."  
Cary runs out of steam, and the words hang heavily in the air. Cary can tell immediately that Peter is angry, even if he always keeps a damn good poker face. His deep voice has the tiniest catches of emotion.  
"Cary, you should think twice before you threaten a man like me."  
  
  
But Cary is ranting hysterically now, floodgates open. He's high on the relief of just finally fighting back, finally saying something. The alcohol has him fearless. "First Kalinda, now you're screwing around with your deputy in the SA's office. No question about it. Alicia's gonna divorce you. She and Will finally have the excuse they've been waiti--"  
Cary isn't anticipating being punched. He expected threats, maybe a little physical intimidation. Peter Florrick is too public a figure to get away with laying people out. But he feels the undeniable crushing impact of a punch to his guts. He falls against the wall, and Peter shoves him face first against the doorframe. Cary barely catches himself before Peter is holding him by the throat, pulling him upright, marching him back into the corridor. The front door clicks calmly closed behind. Cary resists now, tripping over his own feet trying to find purchase on the hard wood. He wheezes when he collides into the wall, grabbing hold of Peter's hand on his throat and trying to peel it off finger by finger. When that doesn't work, he swings an awkward, low punch, but Peter barely tenses when it hits his ribs. He hoists Cary another inch higher.  
"Come on, Cary. Don't you have something to say? Something about Alicia?" he hisses, even closer now, breathing ragged with rage.  
"No," Cary manages to breathe, acute fear in his dark and unsteady eyes. He can't quite manage to get his feet planted on the floor. Peter is tall, and stronger than he anticipated. Peter drops him unceremoniously, waiting for Cary's attempt to straighten up before he punches his jaw right into the plaster.  
  
  
Cary becomes aware of a startling pain before anything else. Slowly the darkness gives way to sharp sensation. He groans, clutching at his jaw. Even in his punch-drunk state, he can tell something's wrong. He's staring at the heat light on an unfamiliar bathroom ceiling. He rolls over, touching his ribcage gingerly. Bare skin? Oh. His shirt is gone. That disturbs him for some reason. He blinks around, rolling over and then trying to pull up on one hand. He spots the blue dress shirt, noting that it has blood on it. Like piecing together a crime scene. He touches his lips, winces at the still wet smear of blood. He always did bleed pretty easily.  
"You don't need to worry about it. You're not going to be coming into work tomorrow," comes a deep, dry voice. Peter walks back into the room, examining his knuckles. "You're fired. Now, I can take you to a hospital, but you're going to want to get your story straight."  
"I walked into a door. Right?" Cary says with thick sarcasm, clumsily pulling his shirt back on. His bravado evaporates as Peter takes one menacing step forward. He looks down, concentrating on fastening buttons. One of them is broken, the fabric around it torn. This shirt is Armani. Fuck.  
"You got mugged. They took your phone and your wallet."  
Cary's jaw clenches. He pats his pockets, and then grabs at the sink to pull himself upright. "Give me my fucking phone."  
"It was stolen, Cary."  
"Give me my phone," he repeats, trying to sound threatening. "I need to call someone."  
"The police?"  
"Kalinda. She's expecting a call from me about..." he could never lie particularly well, and now he's rocked and fumbling. "About something private."  
"Kalinda," Peter murmurs, sounding amused. "You think Kalinda cares what happens to you? She must think she lucked out. All that information, and she doesn't even have to stoop to sleep with you."  
"Fuck you," Cary says, almost a snarl. He stumbles, undermining his momentary appearance of strength.  
Peter smiles. "You don't need the hospital. You need to lie down," he says.  
Cary's face feels like it disagrees. Peter steps out, and Cary weighs up his chances of making a run for it. Before he can settle on a course of action, Peter is back, tossing over loose clothing.  
  
  
"Couch is free. I'm going to sleep. Leave if you want. Go to the hospital, tell them I beat the shit out of you. A pretty crazy story, but you do what makes you feel good inside, Cary." Peter tosses over the little ziplocked bag of pills that had been tucked in the coin slot of his wallet. "You remember, though, that you're a junkie, and I've still got those records of your theft. People might say, for example, that you got beaten up by your dealer, after you exhausted your stash of stolen pills that you were supposed to sell to him."  
Cary stares up, hands shaking, mind hurtling down a hundred paths. It takes him another second to find his voice. "Don't fire me."  
"What?"  
"You said you were gonna fire me. Don't. ...Please."  
"Don't come into work next week. No, don't come in at all until I call you. ...I'll see what I can swing," Peter mutters over his shoulder.  
Cary waits ten minutes before he creeps out. Again, he considers just leaving, but he can't drive like this. Besides, he can't find his keys. Peter probably confiscated them. By the couch is a large glass of water, and a box of strong prescription pain killers. Cary stares down, wondering if it's another trap. He needs something to take the edge off, though. He lies down, staring around the dimly lit room for a few seconds before his eyelids grow heavy. He's been running on empty for a long time. He sleeps hard, and deep.


	5. Chapter 5

Cary wakes up to an ominously empty apartment. His face feels raw and swollen, and his ribs ache excruciatingly in one spot. He manages to pull himself up anyway. He goes through Peter's belongings in dead silence. Nothing that could be deemed even vaguely suspicious. No laptop, no phone, no unusual files. No stash of stolen drugs. This apartment is not well lived in, to say the least. Peter didn't expect to be here long. He finishes his search of the communal areas and main bedroom. He glances towards the kids' rooms, Peter's kids' rooms, but he doesn't look inside them. His stomach rolls with discomfort anyway. Peter has returned his phone, his wallet, his car keys, all sitting on the coffee table, beside his roughly folded suit. As soon as he's finished the search, he wants to be out of this creepy fucking apartment. It's like a mausoleum in there. His hands shakes on the wheel before he starts the car, and keep shaking all the drive home. He rushes up to his apartment, unwilling to cross paths with any of his unfamiliar neighbours, fumbling with the key and then staggering to his own bed. He falls down on top of the sheets, shuddering with silent panic. He'd lined it up, all of it. Worked so fucking hard. And to have it all destroyed by Peter fucking Florrick, he can't take it. He lets out a low scream into the pillow. He should kill him. No, he should plan and execute an elaborate revenge strategy. Of course, the sense of powerlessness holds him back. Never once does he consider going to the police.  
  
He hears his phone buzz with texts, and then ring a couple of times. He can't bear the thought of what the messages might say, so he doesn't let himself about it. He wanders out, examining his reflection in his hallway mirror and prodding the now deep purple bruises on his jaw, his neck, his eyelid. The pain is catching up with him again, so he rummages in a cupboard for the bottle of expensive whiskey his uncle bought him for passing the bar. He was waiting for something worth celebrating. Maybe getting the job after his competition with Alicia. But nothing worth celebrating arrived. If his life is effectively over, what harm can hedonism do? He pulls the cork out, taking long gulps. He gives a silent, hysterical chuckle as he reads the label, but who cares how nice it is? He doesn't deserve to savour it. He lost the fight, he lost the underlying war. Peter will find a way of undermining his credibility and disbarring him. He drinks more, slumping on the couch and not moving, just wallowing in self-pity and masochistic imagining. He hears the doorbell once, but there's absolutely nobody he wants to see right now. He only moves because the peated whiskey is getting too strong. He prefers the cheaper stuff. Not a big surprise. He only ever pretends to be cultured. He opens his fridge to look for some sort of chaser, and freezes in horror. On the top shelf, dead center of the barren refrigerator is a large, clear plastic bag of familiar pills. He slams the fridge shut, leaning against the wall opposite. Someone has been in his house. Peter? That bastard could have had a key cut while he was sleeping. Not just sleeping, dosed up on painkillers. Paranoia starts to creep in, and as if in direct response, there's a scraping sound at the front door.  
  
  
Cary hurries over to the corner of the kitchen closest to the front entryway. He glances feverishly towards the knife block, but that would put him in clear view of the entrance. Should he call the police? His phone's in his suit jacket in a crumpled heap by the bed, and he never bothered to get a home line put in here. He hears a shuffle of footsteps, and raises the bottle like a club before something permeates his drunken haze. That's the sound of heels.  
"Kalinda?"  
"What the fuck, Cary?" she growls, rounding the corner on him. "Why aren't you answering your--" now she's met his eyes, and even with all the blinds pulled down, the bruising and the drunken bleariness is obvious. She steps forward, a hand raised as if to cradle his cheek. "What happened?"  
"What does it look like? I got the shit beaten outta me," Cary mutters, withdrawing, leaning into the shadow.  
"Have you filed charges?"  
"What are you, the violence police?" Cary says, trying to crack a smile. It just looks wrong. Kalinda's brows pull together. "Oh, come on, don't be like that."  
"Who?"  
"It was dark, I didn't--"  
"Dammit, Cary, who are you protecting?"  
"You. Trust me," he mutters, swaying.  
Kalinda catches his arm, and Cary just follows her lead straight to the couch. Like a puppy, even now.  
  
  
"I almost hit you, Kalinda," Cary mumbles, abashed, tossing aside the whiskey bottle and slumping down. "Why're you here?"  
"I called you six times. And your office twice. Nobody knew where you were. All your cases were reassigned."  
Peter's not trying to smooth things for my return at all. Cary's brow furrows. "So you broke in?"  
"You didn't answer the door. Who are you hiding from, Cary?" Kalinda presses again.  
Cary just shakes his head, picking up the whiskey bottle again. "You want a drink?"  
She purses his lips, taking the bottle and setting it out of his reach. "Talk to me."  
Cary leans down, against her shoulder, head lolling. His eyes are slightly damp, but they're closed. Kalinda bumps his shoulder when his breathing grows heavy.  
"Cary?"  
He wakes up enough to look up. He gives a lazy smile, eyes meeting hers for a few seconds before his brow wrinkles with concern. His speech is still slurred. "...when you slept with Peter... you wanted to, right? I mean, he didn't... manipulate you?"  
Kalinda freezes up. "Why are you asking me that?"  
"He... hurt you?" Cary mutters, a protective look crossing his face as he straightens off her shoulder, trying to meet her eyes.  
She gazes right back at him, brow creased with suspicion. "No, Cary. I initiated it. I don't do things I don't want to," Kalinda says, lips pursed.    
He seems to relax enough to slump back down, but Kalinda is just staring at him, face growing ashy. Her eyes seem to be in another world.  
  
  
"Did you and Peter fight over something, Cary?"  
Cary's sure he gives away the answer from how tense he suddenly is, how his muscles contract and lock him down into the couch despite trying to will them otherwise. Sober, he might be able to lie his way through this. Of course, if he were sober he would never have mentioned Florrick's name. He groans, and then mumbles softly, almost a plea. "Kalinda, leave it."  
She's on her feet at once. Cary squints up, and then winces at the flash of a phone camera, the sound of a shutter.  
"Delete it. I'm not gonna change my mind about pressing charges."  
Kalinda doesn't reply to that. She walks away, returning with a glass of water. Her hand is shaking as she sets it down, clinking on the enamel of the coffee table. "Drink that and get some sleep."  
"Are you mad at me?" Cary asks before he can help himself. It comes out drunk and whiny.  
She gives a tense, unconvincing smile down. No teeth show. "I'll be back soon."  
"Stay away--" he starts to warn, then realizes his mistake. "Don't go looking into any of this crap, Kalinda. I don't want you to. It makes me feel uncomfortable."  
She gives the same fake smile, and then leaves. Cary waits till he hears the door click, and then groans loudly, slumping. Idiot. He rests his head against the warm spot Kalinda vacated. The apartment is silent, but he can feel it spinning slowly even with his eyes closed. In another few minutes he's snoring.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the guest who gave me kudos! Really felt like I was screaming into the void there for a second.

Kalinda is blind with shock on the drive back to the office. She blinks herself awake as she parks, and can barely recall the drive. She doesn't have time to worry about how dangerous that is. Is this her fault? Her heart pounds, and she feels herself filled to the brim with undiluted rage. She doesn't care about many people, and she would never have counted herself as particularly protective, but what she feels now makes her understand all of those older siblings, mothers who go into protective rage mode. It seems to course through her bloodstream. She swears and punches the steering wheel. There's a sharp blast of the horn, but she doesn't care whether it startles anyone. She doesn't care about anything but killing Peter Florrick right now. Even as she thinks that, she prays she misinterpreted something. She runs through the conversation, trying to be cold, trying to be analytical. Be Kalinda now, not whoever this madwomen is. Cary froze up when I tried to touch him. Because he was bruised and sore, she tells herself. If it were a case, I would say something very bad happened to him. I would be sure of it. And then there was that strange question about Peter manipulating her. But Cary... Cary is heterosexual. Almost aggressively so. And he's a fit, muscular man, even if Peter certainly has a height and weight advantage on him. If it came down to it-- she doesn't want to think about that. It would come down to who has the jump on the other. She can't even bring herself to picture a fight like that going down.  
  
  
She pulls her phone out, opening the picture and examining Cary's marred features. In spite of herself, she feels tears prickling. She's cried more than she'd like to admit in this past year, about Alicia mostly, but it still surprises her. It doesn't dull the anger. What, then? Kill the State's Attorney? Yeah, right. With the most elaborate planning, it would still be impossible to get away with. Even if it didn't mean spending the rest of her life in prison, she couldn't do that to Alicia. She's still staring at the phone when it rings, and she considers ignoring it. But it's Will. She pulls it together, with no small effort, and answers.  
"Yeah?"  
"Kalinda, did you get those-- hey, in here-- did you get the photos?"  
Which photos? She blankly examines the smooth concrete wall in front of the parked car.  
"Kalinda?"  
Eventually she can piece it together. Oh. The discrimination suit. The gay rally photos. "Yes."  
"...well could you do me a solid and bring them to my office," Will draws out.  
Kalinda doesn't respond to that either. Her mind is somewhere else, trying to solve the miserable puzzle. If this were a case, you'd be suspicious. Cary isn't telling you everything. There's something more going on. Drugs. She's had her suspicions for awhile now. He's been withdrawn and erratic.  
"Kalinda, what's wrong?" Will asks, voice hardening to a serious edge. She thinks she hears that older sibling edge in his voice too. But Will has never liked Cary. There's no help to be had there--  
"Nothing. I'll bring those photos to you now. I'm just parking."  
She hangs up immediately.  
  
  
"Alicia."  
It's hours later. Kalinda's dark eyes are behind inappropriate sunglasses as she follows Alicia through the parking lot.  
Alicia turns sharply, surprised and then tense. One manicured eyebrow raises a fraction. "I'm done for the day."  
Kalinda internally winces. She can read the subtext there. _Don't contact me outside of work._ "I need your help."  
"Oh?" A single syllable, but Kalinda feels the coldness hit her like a punch to the guts. Alicia should have asked 'What's wrong?' and her eyes should have softened. For the first time since she started worrying about Cary, it slips her mind. She just feels lonely. Hadn't things been better, for a second? But the image of Cary's bruised features return. She puts aside her private mourning.  
"It's not for me. You need to convince Will to hire Cary. Diane will be on board, but you can convince Will to--"  
"Will doesn't need to be convinced. They offered him a position last year, and he rejected it to stay at the State's Attorney's office," Alicia says, voice still frosty. They may have managed to fight off the indictment, but Will won't forget who they were up against. "Cary can do his own salary negotiation. He's a grown man."  
Kalinda purses her lips and decides shock factor is the only way to get past this awkwardness. She pulls out her phone, opening the camera and swiping to the last photo taken. "Peter did this."  
  
  
Alicia's brow furrows slightly at Kalinda saying that name, and then her eyes focus down on the photo. Her lips part in a silent gasp, and her voice is very quiet when she finds it. "He wouldn't have... why...? Is he under arrest?"  
"Cary won't go to the police."  
"Is Peter okay?"  
Kalinda feels a flash of rage. "No visible bruising, if that's what you're asking." Dana had been confused about that question. She likes Cary, but she also likes Peter. Kalinda neglects to mention the bandaged hand that Dana had added on after a moment of thought. Alicia doesn't look particularly relieved, so Kalinda softens her taut spine.  
There's horrified quiet for a moment as Alicia leans closer, her dark eyes wide and disbelieving. "He looks awful, Kalinda. Why would Peter do that to him?"  
"I don't know. There's bad blood between them. ...I thought you might know something."  
"I didn't hear anything. You thought this was about me? ...me and Cary?" Alicia says, her tone clearly conveying how preposterous she finds that idea.  
Kalinda considers lying for one moment to protect Cary, but she can't help him that way. Alicia's too clever by half. "No. I just know Cary got on Peter's bad side. ...I don't have anything concrete yet, but I think Cary might be mixed up with something drug related."  
"Drugs?" Alicia scoffs again, but then reconsiders. Not only does she think of the psychedelics, but she thinks of his cold stare the last time she finished a cross examination when she was up against him. His wide, unwavering eyes. And then he'd been almost manic with his questions. They'd been repairing things, and then suddenly Cary seemed just as vindictive and petty as ever. Something about it seems intuitive. She remains distant as Kalinda slots her phone away.  
  
  
"If they offer him a job, a good job, his pride won't get in the way. ...and Peter won't get in trouble for--"  
"Fuck Peter," Alicia says sharply. "Cary's a kid. He's smart, but he's a fucking kid. That's not boys roughhousing, Kalinda," she says, between lightly clenched teeth, gesturing to where Kalinda's phone was zipped away. "That's an attack."  
Kalinda feels the sudden urge to pull Alicia into a hug. Ridiculous. She doesn't hug people. She does give the tiniest of smiles, though her exhaustion shows through it. "You'll ask Will."  
Alicia nods, fingers tightening to fists on the handle of her bag. "What are you going to do?"  
"I'm going to do my research. Then I'm going to make it clear to Peter that Cary will be relieved from his position without two weeks notice, and with exemplary references," Kalinda says stiffly. She's a little surprised that Alicia doesn't protest the part of her plan that involves her in a room with Peter Florrick. If anything, Alicia looks more resolved hearing that. Kalinda for one tiny second wonders if she should share the rest, unburden herself. The prostitute. The missing drugs she's found out Peter is looking into. Cary's instant of cowered fear. But she can't. This is hers to solve.


	7. Chapter 7

Alicia fully intended to go straight home. She'll have to figure out how to keep Grace and Zach away from Peter without alarming him. It's all so strange, so foreign. Peter doesn't even yell at the kids. He loves them. She doesn't drive to her apartment, though. She meanders downtown, and then pulls off the road, and calls back into reception. It's not hard to get old personnel files, and she remembers Cary mentioning something about a new apartment. It wouldn't have been that long ago. She doubts he's moved since then, not if he was putting down a deposit. She tries to talk herself out of getting involved. She's already exhausted, though, a full day of work and now trying to reconcile this image of her husband with that awful photo. Still, she has to see if it's true. She pulls up out the front of his apartment building, crossing the road to buy a six-pack of craft beer that she assumes he'll like (he's a young man, that's what they drink these days) and then knocks hesitantly on the door. She hopes it's anyone else. A nice elderly couple. Jewish, probably, in this neighborhood. But no, it's Cary's face peering out from behind the door. Kalinda's name fades on his tongue, and he winces. Alicia's mouth falls open with shock. God, it's worse than the photo.  
"You like beer, right?" she says as quickly as she possibly can, trying to sound casual. She tries to marshall her expression into plain friendliness.  
Cary's eyes darken all at once, and his jaw clenches too, muscle flickering with emotion. He's slightly shorter than her, while she's in her work heels, but he's still a man, and a rather terrifying looking one at the moment. "He sent you? Is this the olive branch?"  
"...Cary, Kalinda told me," Alicia says, softly. "God, you look terrible."  
"Thanks," he says, flatly, going to close the door.  
She starts forward. "Why? He's never hit me. Or the kids. Why did he--"  
"Ask him. He's your husband," Cary says, and then thoroughly regrets it.  
  
  
He's hungover now, as well as beaten. Maybe starting on withdrawal too, and he won't touch that enormous stash of pills in his fridge. He should probably get to work destroying that evidence. Instead, he's staring at the very last person in the world he wants to see right now, but somehow social nicety is still getting in the way of closing the door in her face. She still has that outraged, compassionate look on her face that charmed clients so well. He has to admit, he feels a little bit empowered by it. He feels validated. He imagines that's why she was always the assigned hand-holder. And in spite of himself, he opens the door, not even welcoming her in, just wandering back into the cold darkness of his apartment.  
Alicia turns on a light as she steps through, and then mutters an apology and dims it low. "...have you filed--"  
"A police report, no. How do you think that will go against the State's Attorney, even if I did want to?"  
"You're the Deputy State's Attorney, aren't you?"  
Cary finally cracks a tiny, bitter smile. He steps past her, to grab a beer, and opens it. He's relieved that she does too. "Just a figurehead. Besides, I'm not going to be for much longer."  
"Yes. About that. I think I can get you-- I mean, get Will to get you a job."  
Cary pauses with the beer almost at his lips. He squints up, fingers drumming on the cold glass. "Why would you do that? Why would Will?"  
"You're a damn good lawyer. We'd really just be taking advantage of the situation."  
Cary scoffs, but the hint of a smile stays in his eyes. Is this what Alicia's comfort feels like when its directed your way? Yeah, he gets it. All warm and fuzzy on the inside now. He drinks the beer, happier with the silence. At least he's not alone.  
  
  
He's surprised by a knock at the door, even though he shouldn't be. Kalinda said she was coming to stay, after all. Really, she should have told him to stay at her place. That would have been the normal thing to do. He guesses she wasn't ready to bare her life to him like that. Ironic, considering. Well, he has a spare room, and a woefully underused pullout couch. He'd thought he'd have more friends from out of state visiting. Alicia looks surprised too, hesitates to answer it. If it's Peter? If he really believes some bizarre conspiracy theory about her sleeping with Cary, being at his apartment won't help. She reconsiders, drawing herself up and marching over to the door. Peter can go fuck himself. The righteous expression fizzles when she finds herself looking down at Kalinda. She looks incomplete in the dark leggings and hoodie, holding a duffel and a plastic takeout bag. Less makeup too, though she's obviously still wearing something.  
"Why are you here?" Kalinda asks abruptly, after a moment of nervousness.  
"I wanted to make sure he was okay. ...I guess you're in charge of comfort food?"  
"It's just Chinese," Kalinda says, uncomfortably. Cary won't be happy, not about her going behind his back to Alicia. But then Alicia pulls the door inwards, and Cary is just loitering there with an odd smile on his face.  
"Ladies, no need to fight. Plenty of me to go around."  
Kalinda and Alicia make near identical scoffing sounds. Without agreeing to it, Kalinda lets herself in, closing the door and dumping the food on the coffee table. She pulls out a beer from the six-pack on the bench. If this was a less terrible situation, it would warm her heart to be here with these two. "Did you speak to Will?" she asks Alicia, setting her beer aside and picking up the rest of the carton to put in the fridge.  
Cary has only just rounded the corner again, and startles in her direction. "Wait." He doesn't get to finish his sentence. The fridge is already open. Kalinda has her head tilted slightly. She puts the beer on the bottom shelf, and closes the door, the perfect poker face.  
Alicia cranes her neck to see, glancing back at Cary's poor attempt at hiding distress. "What, you have a human head in there?"  
  
  
"I think you two should go," Cary says, trying to sound more confident, more masculine than he feels.  
Kalinda says nothing. She looks angry for a moment, with herself maybe, and then reaches into her bag, pulling on a pair of leather gloves in silence.  
"No, no, it's not--" Cary tries again, stepping forward. He pauses in front of Kalinda, hand hovering. He's not about to physically restrain her. One hand keeps the fridge closed, instead. "It's not what you think."  
"Tell me what I'm thinking, Cary," she says, voice low, not meeting his eyes. Her anger seems to radiate off her.  
Cary's stance changes, defensive, and he looks back towards Alicia. For some reason, his pride could handle Kalinda knowing, but not Saint Alicia. He doesn't get a choice in the matter. Kalinda deftly pushes him back and opens the refrigerator, dumping the huge bag of pills on the counter. Cary stumbles, and then he won't meet any of their eyes. He leans back on a cupboard and scowls at the floor.  
Alicia's eyes are even wider, now. Wow. Drugs. She really had her read of Cary completely off.  
"They're not mine."  
Kalinda's lip curls very slightly. "Whose fridge is this then, Cary?"  
"It's my fridge. They're not my pills."  
"But you have been taking pills," Alicia asks softly, but intently.  
"What is this, a fucking cross examination? I'm telling you, Kalinda, they're not mine. Peter put them here. So I would be too scared to talk to anyone."  
"About the beating?"  
"About everything," Cary says, voice grating over the words.  
  
  
He looks away, as the silence overtakes the room. He blinks away the start of tears, trying to keep his voice level. "I didn't ask for your help. Either of you," he spits.  
Alicia chews her lip before she speaks, but she makes sure her voice sounds firm. "Well, too bad. We're helping you anyway."  
Cary looks up, eyes red, another shade of disbelief.  
Alicia looks back at him firmly, holding his gaze fast. "Do you need medical help? A clinic?"  
"It's just Adderall," he says, softly. He shivers slightly at Alicia's hand on his shoulder. He doesn't think his own mom has ever been this maternal with him.  
"Okay, we'll flush it," Alicia reasons.  
"...no. I think I should take it," Kalinda murmurs, speculatively. She goes through Cary's draws, finds a large, clean ziplock bag and then seals it closed over the bag. "Could your fingerprints be on it?"  
"No," Cary says quietly, slumped into Alicia's hand. He closes his eyes, once again trying not to cry.  
Kalinda nods, eyes still distant and spaced out. She steps around, picking through her duffle for a large coat. Cary thinks he sees a gun holster. "Alicia, do you have to be home?"  
"I'm fine here for the next two hours."  
"I don't need a babysitter," Cary murmurs, glancing over as she straightens up. "Please. Don't do anything stupid."  
"I don't do anything stupid. Ever," she says, forcing a smile and patting Cary's arm. She puts the pills into her bag and then gestures towards the Chinese food. "Eat, sleep, and don't try to call anyone."  
"Am I under house arrest?"  
Kalinda says nothing to that. She looks like she's considering saying something to Alicia, but she just strides purposefully away.  
  
  
Cary swipes Kalinda's abandoned beer and drinks deeply from it. Alicia sighs, touching it and gently tugging it out of Cary's reach.  
"She's right. Eat some food. You need to heal. Clients aren't going to want you in court arguing for them while you look like a cage fighter."  
Cary laughs at that, pout fading. "A losing cage fighter," he says, stepping over to pick up the cartons of food. He's deft with chopsticks, from a bachelor's lifestyle of takeaway. "So what cases are you working on at the moment? Please, distract me from all this."  
Alicia is tight-lipped for a moment, for a second worrying if the devious side of Cary is about to spring back up once she confides in him. No, he's about to be on her side. She picks up a spring roll with her fingers, biting into it before she speaks, and then pulling Kalinda's beer her way and drinking it. The possibility of shared saliva doesn't bother her. "...well, there is this one case we're trying on. ChumHum might have sold..."


	8. Chapter 8

Kalinda lets herself in to the silent apartment with Cary's borrowed key. She feels concern for a moment, fists clenching as she steps through. She doesn't reach for her gun, and she doesn't need to. Alicia smiles up at her, makeup a little smudged, but as beautiful as ever. On her shoulder, Cary's head lolls. Sleeping again. Probably had some pretty terrible insomnia between the pills and whatever Peter did to him. The television flashes with a documentary about whales, by the look of it, but the sound is muted. Alicia moves slightly, seems to blush as Cary's arms trap her sleepily.  
"'s okay, you just lie down," she murmurs, gently extricating herself, and putting a pillow under his cheek. She looks up again, smile fading. "...did you talk to Peter?" she asks Kalinda, voice low.  
"Not yet. I want to make sure Will is receptive first."  
Alicia nods. It makes sense. Can't tank Cary's work life without providing a safety net for him. She rubs her eyes, forgetting that she still has a full face of work makeup. "I'll talk him into it," she promises. "Maybe we could tell him--"  
Kalinda shakes her head, quickly. "Cary won't let us do that. He won't come to Lockhart Gardner if his pride is damaged."  
Alicia sighs and looks down at the sleeping man. "He can't come into work looking like that, not without a damn good excuse."  
Kalinda nods. "I think two weeks will do it. So he can 'give notice' at the SA's office."  
"He's not going back there, though."  
"Of course not."  
  
  
They fall to silence. It lasts at least a minute, before both woman begin to speak almost at the same time.  
"How are you--"  
"Are you dealing--" Kalinda quiets herself, but Alicia laughs softly and gestures to her. "Are you dealing with this okay?"  
"I'm dealing weirdly well. It'll be hard to convince him he can't have the kids over, but--"  
"He'll agree to anything once I'm done with him," Kalinda says, a hard edge to her voice. "I'm thinking DC."  
"...DC?"  
"Washington DC. He's going to leave the city."  
Alicia's mouth falls open. "Do I want to know how you're going to convince him to do that?"  
"No," Kalinda says, and adds nothing. She seems to anticipate more questions, more mistrust, but Alicia just looks relieved. They make a good team, Kalinda thinks. Alicia with the people skills, she with her questionable morals. Alicia picks up her handbag, pulls her coat on.   
"I have to get home so the kids don't think I've been murdered."  
Kalinda doesn't particularly appreciate that joke, but she smiles. "...I know I can't order you around, Alicia, but please don't contact Peter."  
"I won't. Do you want some money for groceries? Cary doesn't even have milk in the fridge. A giant bag of unlabeled prescription medication, but no milk."  
Kalinda looks surprised, and her lips curl with suppressed amusement. "I can buy milk. Thanks, Alicia."  
"You're welcome, Kalinda," Alicia says dryly, hanging back, hesitating, and then hugs Kalinda very quickly. "He's going to be okay."  
Kalinda tries not to go as rigid as a block of stone, but only partially succeeds. She swears Alicia could feel her heart pounding through all the layers of clothing as the euphoria kicks in. Alicia is hugging her. She should pull a face at the hug like Alicia expects her to, she should do something. Instead, she just blinks to clear her swimming vision, and hopes that Alicia thinks the emotion is all about Cary. Think it's puppy love. Don't look too closely.  
  
  
To Kalinda's relief, Alicia just looks kind and warm. No doubts playing across her features. They say nothing else to each other as Alicia leaves, and they don't need to. Kalinda looks around the apartment. It's subtly tidier, in ways she can't put her finger on. She checks Cary is still sleeping, and buys groceries, and tylenol, and calls Dana again. When she comes back in, the lights are on. Cary is mixing an electrolytic sports drink, dressed in expensive exercise clothing. He looks ten years older and a thousand times better.  
"I'm going for a run. Have to clear my head."  
She just nods, touching the stubble on his cheek. It's a bit too casual, but he doesn't seem bothered. She unpacks the groceries, feeling a twinge in her guts at how horribly domestic this feels. This isn't her, home maker to some successful, white lawyer. She doesn't tell him to be careful with himself, the budding resentment doesn't let her. And then she catches sight of him wincing as he moves, the brave attempt at a smile in her direction as he picks up the keys that they're apparently sharing now. All at once she feels terrible for thinking those things. She's caring for a friend. "Don't hurt anything."  
"Bit late for that," he returns, and actually smiles.    
He looks at her in his kitchen for a little too long before he steps out. He comes back in holding his ribs, but shakes off the concerned questions, and seems much more like himself when he's lounging at his kitchen counter, drinking the fluorescent green drink, and drying off from the shower. Kalinda is working, now, glued to her laptop studying page after page of Syrian news sites. Cary looks at his watch, now back on his wrist, and his lips tug. He should still be working at this time of night. What do normal people do with all this leisure time? He turns the television on and channel surfs.  
  
He can't keep his attention off Kalinda, even though he tries to. There is an immense gratitude that he's only just starting to process, and he shouldn't be sullying it with pining. She catches him glancing over once, raises an eyebrow.   
"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" Cary asks, gesturing to the clock.  
She doesn't say anything for several seconds, then folds the laptop closed, putting it safely into the case and walking closer. She sits beside him. Cary feels every inch of his skin raised with goosebumps, and tries not to race ahead of himself into lurid fantasy. But fantasy and reality seem to align closely as she touches his cheek again, this time meeting the smooth, cleanshaven skin.  
"Would you like to have sex?" she asks, perfectly sincere, for once without allusion or disguise. There's no catch of hesitation or embarrassment, but no signs of lust. Her steady gaze bores right through him. His mouth goes horribly dry as he realises why she's offering. It's for his sake. This is her offering him a coping mechanism. She must know, and it sickens him. He pulls out of reach at once.  
"You don't need to do that," he says quietly, standing. He keeps the anger out of his voice, because he's not angry at her. This is Kalinda's attempt at healing him. "You should go to sleep."  
"I wouldn't do something I don't want to do. I told you that," Kalinda says, to her credit, not seeming offended by the rejection in the slightest. "If you don't want it to be me, we could go to a bar and--"  
"It's not going to help."  
"It helped me," she says, plainly.   
  
  
She's surprised to hear herself voice those words. She feels the heady rush of panic, at one of secrets being exposed. It's her doing the exposing, though. She studies Cary's features intently, looking for a sneer of suspicion, a wrinkled lip of disgusted judgement, or worst of all, pity. Cary just looks horrified.   
"Who?" he asks abruptly, tactlessly. He's already standing, but now his fists clench too, and he seems taller.  
"You don't know them."  
Cary jitters with uncertainty and anger. "...when did--"  
"Cary, it's really none of your business."  
"And this is your business?" he retorts, suddenly, anger spilling over.  
"Yes. I could have stopped this."  
"How?"  
"By making sure Peter Florrick never ended up in a position of power," she says, certain.  
Cary tries not to wince when he hears that name. "This isn't your fault in the slightest," he says, voice still sharp, but no longer angry. He swallows and paces over to try and find one of the remaining beers in the refrigerator. "I didn't do anything. I let myself be a victim," he says, disgust obvious, but for himself alone. "You couldn't have known."  
"I could have put it together if I'd--"  
"Kalinda. Seriously. Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault. If you're here because you're blaming yourself, if you offered sex because you blame yourself, please go home..." he mutters, trailing off and just watching her step closer, under the lights.  
  
  
Kalinda closes the distance without a word. She puts a hand on his, stopping him from opening the beer, and gazes up with wide, shining eyes. She looks so young without makeup and leather, Cary thinks. She's so small. Vulnerable in a way he couldn't picture Kalinda. He wants to destroy whoever hurt her, not legally, not through due process. No, he wants revenge on some primitive, cave man level of incensed passions and bloodlust. He imagines Alicia feels the same way. There's odd symmetry there. Maybe it's not that odd. Maybe this is just what real friendships are like. He leans backwards, surprised when Kalinda closes the gap and touches his chest. His heart is racing, but from outrage or proximity to Kalinda, he doesn't know.  
"If you want it, take the offer. Nothing changes between us."  
That's what I'm worried about, he wants to scream. We can't have sex for no reason. We have sex because you've finally fallen in love with me. But that isn't, and has never been on the table. Never will be. Despite the oppressiveness of his thoughts, he's raised a hand to touch the loose, dark hair. He curls a lock gently between his fingers, waits for her to lean closer. Their lips touch, Kalinda pressed upwards, Cary sagging back almost defeated into the refrigerator. It's an oddly chaste kiss, considering how their bodies brush against each other. Cary closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of her lingering perfume, and groans under his breath. He's going to hate himself.  
"Not like this. Go to bed."  
He tries not to think about the fact that 'not like this' probably means never. He can't take advantage of her, though. Not after hearing that.   
As if she knows, she touches his cheek again. "I want this. I'm not going to tell you again." She is silent, waiting, and then calmly turns and leaves for the spare room. She waits until she's alone to cry.


	9. Chapter 9

Cary wakes to another empty apartment, and an unshakeable sense of dread. It's seemingly confirmed by a pleasant, distant note from Kalinda beside a takeout breakfast bagel. He's sore, but markedly less so. Less like he's just been through five rounds with Mike Tyson. Still isn't gonna pass as a basketball injury, he decides, after self-examination. He eats, takes a mild painkiller and wanders guiltily through to the room Kalinda slept in. All cleaned, the bedding stripped, and Cary bets if he dusted for fingerprints he'd find it wiped down, like a crime scene. Fantastic, he laments to himself. Not only alienated the woman he's in love with, but passed up on the opportunity to deal with his shit through some therapeutic sex. Some therapeutic sex he's been fantasizing about since day one at Lockhart Gardner. What the fuck was he thinking? It all seems less clear cut in the morning light. He puts on largely unnecessary sunglasses before he leaves the house to head to his gym. He hasn't quite connected it in his head, but there's an obvious desire to feel fit, masculine, strong. Hopefully the endorphins take away the lingering aches too.  
  
  
Kalinda doesn't dwell on the night before, ashamed at herself for getting emotional. Being rejected isn't something that happens to her much (especially not when it's someone who has been chasing her for as long as Cary) and even though she knows logically that she shouldn't be bitter, it's hard to put it behind her. She feels exposed and raw, which is the last thing she expected to feel after _not_ having sex. She knows she can't blame Cary, and puts all her effort into not letting the hurt feelings leak into her treatment of him. That won't help. There's one thing she knows will always make her feel better: revenge. Even if it's not for a personal slight on her, she's furious at Peter for hurting Cary, and more pettily, for retrospectively breaking up her friendship with Alicia. There's something else, too. She's not getting back at the person who hurt her, but she is exacting revenge on a rapist. This is probably where vigilanteism starts, psychologically speaking. She parks her SUV below his apartment and walks up, carefully locating the spare key Alicia mentioned, checking around for security cameras, and then inside the apartment. She combs the place much more thoroughly than Cary, but comes up empty-handed. Doesn't matter. She has the ammunition she needs. She takes her gun out of her holster when it gets dark, and sits at Peter's dining room table with a file laid out, an unwitting mirror of how Peter had waited for Cary. It's not a long wait; the keys jingle and Peter flicks on the lights as he wanders through, jerking upright and glaring once he spots her.  
  
  
"Sit down," she cuts in, before he can breathe a word of outrage. That would make her really sick, having to listen to him being morally righteous. She places the gun on the the table. "Don't fucking look at me. Open the file."  
"Kalinda--"  
"Or I can shoot you, and read it to you as you bleed out on the floor?" she suggests, sweetly.  
Peter sits down with two raised eyebrows, the very picture of innocence. "...whatever Cary said about our fight--" he begins.  
"Oh, shut up," she says, exasperation coming through. "Who said this has anything to do with Cary?" She raises the gun, showing off the silencer, until he pulls the file closer, and then sets it down on the table.  
Peter pulls out two pictures and studies them in silence. The first, clearly him, with a young blonde man kneeling between his legs in a hotel room, shot from a distance.  The second, an obscured shot into a storage locker, with the drugs, some cash. That's not the worrying part. Beneath the bag of pills is a photo Peter makes out as another shot of him and the boy, this one with his face obscured.  
"You recognize that photo? You should. You took it," Kalinda says, smiling coldly.  
Peter drops the photo, any pretense of dismayed confusion gone. His dark brows drop into a disappointed scowl. "Blackmail, Leela?"  
"Call me that again. Try it. I have been fantasizing about you crossing the line, so I can watch you suffer."  
"If you want to shoot me, go ahead," Peter says flatly. It's a decent bluff. The State's Attorney shot in his own home would be a colossal investigation, not the sort of thing Kalinda would idly fall into.  
"I do, but it's easier for me if I don't. And for Alicia."

  
That name sparks a reaction. Kalinda's finger slips onto the trigger as Peter's mask falls, and the animal snarl shows through.  
"Did you show her these forgeries?" he spits, standing up.  
"Forgeries? I'm a professional. I don't play around with photoshops. Peter, this is from my private file on you." She almost smiles at his dopey raised eyebrow. "I don't like anyone having leverage on me. Handing over those photos of you and Amber Madison was fine, that was old news. But you and... what was his name? Jesse Heart? Or more accurately, Jamie Ainsworth?" Kalinda feels a mounting sense of satisfaction at the fear in Peter's eyes. She doesn't let it go to her head. It's not done yet. Don't let yourself taste victory too soon. "People could forgive you for fucking a prostitute while you were married, but a twenty year old boy?"     
"You showed Alicia?"  
"No, but don't let that fool you. You are never going to see Alicia again. She's filing for divorce, and sole custody, and you're not going to fight her an inch on it, Peter. Or those photos are going straight to TMZ, and the location of that safe is going straight to the FBI. I have my own private line to a very friendly agent who'd _love_ to take down another corrupt Chicago politician."  
  
  
"...do you want money?"  
"No, Peter, it's really not that easy for you," Kalinda says, voice dripping with condescencion. She reaches into her bag, tosses another envelope over. "I want you to take this economy plane ticket, fly to Washington DC, take the first shitty lobbying job that comes your way. But first, call into your office. Say that you are resigning, effective immediately."  
Peter stares at the plane ticket, absolutely noiseless, reeling.  
"Or you can go to jail, have a dossier of steamy gay photos come out, and go down in history as the butt of every homophobic joke you've ever worried about hearing."  
"I'm not gay," Peter growls.  
"I didn't say you were. Bisexual is just as bad to homophobes. Maybe worse, because they think you have a choice. I'd say join the club, but the last thing I ever want is to be part of a club that would accept you as a member," Kalinda says humorlessly. She breathes in and out, steadying herself, trying not to let the anger make her stupid. "You pack up your shit, you make the call, you get on the plane. If you hurt me, the photos comes out automatically when I don't respond to a coded email from a friend. If you try to smear Cary, the photos come out. If you contact Alicia or your kids, the photos come out. I'll know, Peter. I _always_ know."  
  
  
"You think Alicia's just going to take you trying to split up my family, you fucking whore?"  
Kalinda actually smiles now, but it's not a pleasant one. It's the bared teeth of triumph and violent revenge. "I don't know, Peter, she seemed pretty mad at you when she was looking after Cary last night. I'd say she'd thank me, for getting you out of her life."  
Peter's panic is perceptible now, the whites of his eyes showing despite his scowl. His gaze flickers around the pictures, trying to find some fault, some way out. "She didn't--"  
"'He just fell asleep on my shoulder, laughing emoticon.' Oh, here's a new one. 'I'll stop by tonight and bring some chicken soup. Haven't been able to ask Will yet,'" Kalinda reads from her phone, sweetly. She holds it in one hand, the other pointing the gun vaguely in Peter's direction. Hopefully Will's name drives the knife in even further. "Does she sound like she's mad at me?" Kalinda asks, pouting sarcastically. "I'll ask her what's wrong when we hang out at Cary's place tonight--" Peter stands up, and Kalinda follows suit, the gun pointing straight at his chest. She laughs, a pretty sort of sound, completely foreign to his ears. "You can keep the file, Peter. Keep it to remind you why you don't fuck with my friends ever again."  
  
  
She picks up her bag, and walks calmly out, keeping her eyes on him as she backs up. Her free hand pulls the door open to leave, but she stops, unable to help herself getting one last barb in. "Oh, and one more thing. Next time you try to blackmail someone, don't hand over the leverage, idiot." She slams the door, still keeping the gun in her pocket as she hurries for the elevator. It's only once she's in her car that she relaxes. She drives two blocks away, watching for any sort of tail, and then flips open her laptop to watch the feed of Peter's apartment, and keep an eye on his phone's activity. Her pounding heart slowly comes down to a gentle thud in her ears. Peter is still sitting at the table, staring at the photos. That's good. She can read his body language, and that is the body language of someone who is defeated. She should call Cary, or call Alicia and warn her, but doing this alone feels better, and safer. She leans back in her seat to play the waiting game.


	10. Chapter 10

The bar has already entered the sloppy-drunk portion of the night when Cary manages to get out of the office. He threads his way through the drinkers, scanning for dark hair. He's not a big man, and he's always had a knack for steering through crowds. Probably from getting to the front of lecture halls to kiss ass with the professor. He's remembering the man who taught him about legislative law, how his retreating hairline looked a little like Peter's. He jumps when Kalinda speaks behind him.  
"Did they handcuff you to the desk?"  
Her voice has the pleasant lilt of alcohol. She's normally never so off guard. Still managed to part the crowd and creep up on him, he notes.  
"No, but you're welcome to imagine that if you'd like," he flirts back, even though he still hasn't really dealt with what almost happened between them.  
"Diane? She doesn't really seem your type," she says, catching him by the arm and pulling him over to a booth. Unexpected. Usually it's just the bar. Alicia is there, with her tequila. Cary is so relieved, and instantly understands why Kalinda seems so damn bubbly. She finally has her best friend back. Won't have to settle for me any more, he thinks instantly, with an unexpected level of bitterness. "So, do you want to hear what we're celebrating?" Kalinda asks.  
"Losing our last two cases in straight sets?" Cary asks, sitting down. No drink yet, but there's a tequila shot sitting conspicuously in the free space, lemon perched on top of the glass. He downs it, with a little wince. He has some catching up to do.  
  
  
"My ex-husband has settled down in Washington D. C. as a lobbyist. For a private prison conglomerate. I know, hilarious, isn't it?" Alicia says.  
Cary is instantly surprised by how drunk she is, and also how pleased she seems by the news.  
"That was my surprise," Kalinda says, nudging Alicia as she slides into the booth beside her.  
"My ex-husband," Alicia counters.  
"Hang on, hang on. He officially left the SA's office?"  Cary asks, alert at once. "What did you do?"  
"What I am so very good at doing," Kalinda laughs. She picks up her drink, draining it. "Geneva's holding the reigns for now. You can buy me a drink to say thank you."  
Cary finally processes it emotionally. Peter is gone. Actually gone. Out of his life. "What are you drinking?"  
"Surprise me."  
"Surprise us both, both my kids are out for the night," Alicia says quickly. "Geneva? Damn. I hate going up against her."  
Kalinda is chuckling when Cary walks away, and when he returns with three double pours of the premium tequila, they're almost leaning against each other. For a second, he thinks they're about to kiss. He wouldn't say no to seeing that, but he'd definitely feel left out. But then Kalinda is laughing again, and looks straight at him.  
"You took your time."  
"I don't instantly get the bartender's attention."  
"It's a female bartender. Yes, you do," Kalinda says, more open than she'd usually be.  
Cary doesn't blush, but he does focus intently on his beer. He knows he's handsome, but hearing Kalinda say it so casually makes him think for a second he has a chance there. Which he knows he doesn't. He finishes the last of his beer, grinning as he slides the drinks over.  
  
  
"She wanted to tell me all about the types of tequila. Like you two would know the difference," he says,  
"True," Alicia says, draining her tumbler like it's a shot. "Where's the lemon?"  
Cary runs a hand down his face. "That was... thirty dollars worth of tequila..." he breathes.  
"I know your hourly rate, you can afford it," Kalinda says, shooting hers too.  
"I was going to do a toast," Cary complains, sipping with a pucker of distaste. "Ugh, yeah. Tequila is so gross. What was I thinking?" he says, finishing his with a grimace.  
"It's good," Alicia defends.  
"With triple sec and lime juice. And salt rims," Kalinda says wistfully. "Round of margaritas on me?"  
"Uh, maybe you two should have a round of waters first," Cary suggests.  
"Ooh, the kid gets a promotion and now he thinks he can order me around," Alicia teases, and then closes one eye in concentration. "Kid is definitely right, though. Water and then margaritas. Maybe some pizza in there somewhere?"  
"We should go back to Cary's. It's right around the corner."  
"I just got here. I don't think I have an alcohol there, either. Definitely not margarita mix," Cary says.  
"You just turned down two single, tipsy women who wanted to go back to your place," Alicia jokes. "What's it like, being so handsome that you can blow that off without a second's thought?"  
  
  
Cary does flush now, wishing he had a drink to stare into as Kalinda laughs much louder than he's ever heard her laugh before. She seems like she can't stop herself, her nose crinkling, wiping the faintest tears from her eyes.  
"Oh my god, you're blushing so hard," she whispers, a little breathless. "Cary, you're so cute."  
"I'm not cute," he mutters, picking up his coat. "Okay, I'm gonna take my handsome face back to my apartment and anyone who would like to come drool over me is welcome."  
"Drool over your face?" Kalinda says, as she stands.  
"You can shut up."  
Kalinda smiles even more, wrapping an arm around Cary's waist. "C'mon, don't be mad. She said you were handsome, right?"  
"Mr. Handsome today according to you two ladies. Might as well embrace it and stop this silly attempt at being a lawyer. Underwear modeling always seemed much easier. I bet the hours are more forgiving."  
"Not as fun, though," Alicia says as she stands, touching Cary's shoulder as she weaves through the crowd beside him. "Do any places close to you deliver wine?"  
"I don't think anyone delivers wine. ...I might have a bottle or two sitting around somewhere. I don't drink wine."  
"Give it a couple of years, it'll grow on you," Alicia murmurs fondly. She looks out with sparkling dark eyes into the cold street, buzzing with energy, with freedom. He peeks over at his other side. Kalinda looks completely content, too, face settled like a cat resting in the sun, just basking in Alicia's presence. Cary, once again, feels utterly lonely. She must sense it, wrapping an arm around his waist again, in a gentle, soothing hold.  
  
  
Three hours, two pizzas, and two bottles of wine later, all three are sprawled out on the one couch. Cary ended up in the middle, Kalinda's stocking covered legs laying across his lap. Alicia has propped a pillow against his shoulder, and then laid down against it, occasionally nudging into him when she laughs at how terrible the Nicholas Cage movie is. Cary laughs too, though most of his attention is on Kalinda's calves against his thighs, and the nervous feeling when she stretches and gets far too close to brushing against the erection she's causing. Her eyes are closed, jacket abandoned by the door, lips stained with the expensive wine they've all been drinking. Another gift. Possibly graduation. Maybe from his father, who knows he doesn't drink wine. Even a present from his shitty dad looks good on Kalinda's lips. He shivers when Alicia moves the pillow, and leans her silky hair against him instead. He's on edge with arousal, so involved in his own filthy fantasies that he doesn't even notice Alicia watching him. He certainly notices her hand on his thigh, right beside Kalinda's leg. He looks over sharply, almost colliding with Alicia's lips. They part, slowly.  
"Do you want us?" Alicia asks in a deep, fascinated tone.  
Cary stops breathing at all. He barely nods. Alicia reaches up, opens the Yves Saint Lauren belt, and then unzips his fly. The cotton briefs are pushed aside too. Now, Kalinda's eyes are open, staring over with an unnatural intensity. Cary wonders if they planned this. If they're lovers now, and he's just so oblivious he's missed it. Then he stops wondering, because Alicia gently eases into a grip around him. He's been on edge so long that his hips jerk up towards her hand, and his breath starts up again with a forced gasp of pleasure.  
"Good boy," she whispers. Her teeth have a little tint of wine on them too. Cary thinks he's changed his mind about wine.  
Alicia has all the hand-job experience of a married woman in a relationship with a high libido man, but she doesn't seem to have expediency on her mind. She's leisurely, even teasing. Cary wants to bite his lip, utterly unused to the dynamic. His hands still sit stupidly at his sides. He remembers he has control of them, and one goes up to cradle the back of Alicia's head, the move he's so used to pulling with girls. She pauses, the gentle curve of her impeccably manicured thumb just lightly pressing against his underside. Cary drops his hand, breath speeding and vision swimming with arousal at the barest touch of pain. Kalinda is sitting up, moving in close to examine him, but he doesn't dare look away from Alicia. It would be rude. He puts his hand back at his side, both palms down against the leather of the couch.  
"That's more like it," she whispers, rewarding him with a few, soft, slow pumps.  
  
  
Only now does Kalinda touch him. She lifts the hem of his shirt out of the way, opening a few buttons, and then running just the pads of her fingers up the bumps of his overworked abdomen, appreciative in a way he never expected Kalinda to be. They travel up, brushing his nipples, and then there's firm contact as they wrap around his throat, turning him to face her. Alicia's fingers speed too. He swallows and jerks in his spot, muscles shaking, lips falling apart obscenely easily.  
"Do you feel safe, Cary?" Kalinda asks, voice dangerous.  
He can't breathe, he wants to say, but that's not making him feel unsafe. It feels good. Great. In all of his fantasies, Kalinda is in control. But it's too much, and he's overwhelmed. "Yes," he breathes.  
She smiles, tightening her fingers just a fraction before she leans up to kiss him. "Do you like this?"  
"Yes," he says, again, voice high, strangled, as Alicia gives another, teasing, languid stroke.  
Kalinda watches that. She looks electrified, probably mostly by Alicia and her hypnotic, wine-supplied confidence. "If you don't feel good, at any time, you say stop. And we stop. Nobody will be mad, Cary."  
He nods, screwing his eyes tightly shut.  
"Uh uh," she chides. For some reason, being in control of Cary feels so much more natural. "Look at me."  
He blinks a few times as he reopens his eyes, and Kalinda drops one of her own hand. She settles forward, pulls up her dress just enough to start to ease her tights off.  
"Oh my god, you are so beautif--"  
"Shh," Alicia whispers, sounding entranced. Her hand becomes punishingly slow on Cary, and between the hypersensitivity, and the sight before him, he barely keeps himself quiet. The friction is beginning to get slightly dry, though, and Alicia seems to notice, because she stops completely. Kalinda works the tights off her arched feet, and tosses them towards the table. Her legs part in an irresistible invitation, though to who, Cary isn't quite sure.  
  
  
Afterwards, Alicia has a shower, and then Kalinda, and then Cary. He stands under the spray, gripped with anxiety about how risky this was, how he might be screwing up his entire career. After all the judgment he leveled at Alicia and Will, he made the exact same mistake. Maybe more of a mistake. Surely a threesome is a dozen times the risk and awkwardness. The whole thing is stupid, reckless, impulsive. He's just about talked himself into cutting his losses, and quitting Lockhart Gardner, when he comes back out. The two women are leaning against each other, sharing a cup of coffee. That's when he realizes it wasn't really anything to do with him. Kalinda isn't in love with him. Alicia sure as hell isn't. No, he was a lucky participant pulled off the sidelines, like a fan at a basketball game. He walks through to his refrigerator, makes himself an electrolyte drink from powder, slowly drains the glass staring at the wall, wondering how intoxicated he still is. He finishes another full glass of water to stave off any potential hangovers. The glass goes in the dishwasher, and he fills two more, walking back through to see both Kalinda and Alicia fast asleep, despite the coffee. He turns off the TV, sets the water on the coffee table, covers them in a blanket. Then, satisfied, he walks back to lie back on his own bed. A hollow, jealous pit opens up in his guts. He stares at the roof and wills himself to sleep. Between the physical satisfaction and the last ebbing depressant in his veins, it doesn't take as long as usual. He relaxes. In his last conscious thoughts, he's not bitter or envious. He's serene in a way he hasn't been since childhood. There's no stress, because nobody needs him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to complete. Had it all written but I wasn't totally happy with the kind of downer ending for Cary. But I guess that's how life really is. 
> 
> Thanks to all those who left comments and kudos. No way I finished this without you.


End file.
